Topped (Under the Covers #2) - Kayti McGee

Chapter One

Miranda

With a long sip of wine, I sigh and prepare myself. My fingers are poised over the keys. It’s time to finish the scene I’ve been dreading. The scene that will gut me, just as they all do. Another sip, and I begin.

Stefanie wrapped her hands around his thick dick, rubbing it like a large bratwurst. She loved bratwurst, almost as much as she loved bratwurst-sized cock. Stefanie licked the tip and felt giddy, reminiscent of her days in Germany, full of lagers and lederhosen. He stared into her eyes, captivated by her willing mouth, and whispered the words she’d been dying to hear.

“I love you, too,” she murmurs and licks his thrumming dick.

“No, Stefanie. Look at me.”

Of course he wanted her to look at him. All guys loved being gazed upon while having their cocks sucked. It was the first thing she learned in college, after the location of her dorm and which room had the best parties. She obliges with a sultry smile.

“I can’t be with you.”

Oh God! I knew he was going to say it, but I still can’t help my eyes from filling with tears. Stefanie’s been hurt so many times before. Will this be the bratwurst that finally breaks her? Then—

Ding-ding!

Shit. I groan and snatch my phone, grumbling.

I thumb through the numerous notifications that have been ignored for the last two hours and find the text message responsible for killing my groove. It’s my mother, of course. I knew she had a date tonight, but I thought I had made it very clear that she was to save the recaps for her Bunco ladies.

Randy did not live up to his name.

Oh, gross. Clearly she did not heed my instructions. This is just hideous. I have to be careful how I handle this, though, otherwise my mother will continue divulging entirely too many details about a situation I would rather die than hear about.

Here’s the thing about romance writers: everyone assumes you are overjoyed to gather the details of their most intimate moments. Here’s the other thing: we don’t.

Randy is a mechanic at the local car shop my mother trolls for men—I mean took her car to—at least once a week. If it isn’t bad enough that we share a (pen) name, allow me to describe him. He has a haircut that is bordering dangerously on mullet, wears cutoff jean shorts, and rumor has it that he collects taxidermy. He isn’t exactly what I would call a catch, but neither was my father.

My mom doesn’t have good taste in men. And it appears that trait is freaking hereditary. Thanks, Mom. At least my fictional men are all studs.

I rub my watery eyes and mourn the interruption. Stefanie needs me right now, and here I am debating what to say to my mom about her sexcapades with an Al Bundy knock-off. I’ve got to be sympathetic and brush her off at the same time. She was really going to look at Randy nude? The humanity!

I swallow my continued disgust and send back, Sorry to hear that. At least it didn’t get very far. On to the next one!

Satisfied, I put down my phone and reach for my wine glass. Horror of horrors! It’s empty. How am I supposed to make it through the emotional turmoil of my climax—I mean, my story’s climax, because hell knows I haven’t had one in a while—without wine?

There’s so much to put my characters through. Tearful confessions, hate sex that turns into lovemaking, a final dark night of the soul for my poor Stefanie before she gets her happy ending. I live and breathe these characters. Their pain is mine. How am I supposed to do that without wine?

Even Hemingway said to write drunk.

I think. I was slightly tipsy when I Googled that quote.

A glance at the massive clock on the wall tells me it’s after midnight. This isn’t good; all the liquor stores are closed. How am I supposed to write without wine? Answer: I cannot. It’s simply impossible. I can’t complete the next chapter unless I have liquid courage to get me through it. And thanks to my self-imposed deadline, I absolutely have to finish this chapter tonight.

There’s only one person who can save me now—my next-door neighbor. I text Jane.

SOS Send wine ASAFP

Jane’s husband is a bigshot investment banker with a wine cellar the size of my house. Loaded doesn’t even begin to explain the man, which must be nice. I only have this house because my grandparents left